


Silvertongued

by AlyssaKendall



Category: American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF, Sons of Liberty (TV)
Genre: American Revolution, Kissing, M/M, Plans, Revolution, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3316040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssaKendall/pseuds/AlyssaKendall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul believes that Sam wants more in this life than just the pursuit of liberty. And Sam Adams is a lot of things, but gentle isn’t one of them. He’s not drunk enough for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silvertongued

He closes the door with a quiet _click_. It’s dim inside, lit only by a few small candles incased inside glass vases. Paul stands tall, chest out and arms folded before the glow catches Sam’s face. A signature smirk creeping across his lips, the corners of his mouth barely turned upward. 

“At last,” he mutters, gruff. A hint of sarcasm. 

“Redcoats posted on every corner,” Sam shrugs. His voice is breathy, higher pitched. The warehouse is cold, and bits of his breath form a cloud as he huffs. “Even in these parts of town.” 

“You’re drunk,” Paul chuckles. 

“Not nearly drunk enough.” 

He’s pulled into a sloppy embrace, and Paul is patting his shoulder. Despite the chill outside, there’s sweat on Sam’s brow, and he’s removing his overcoat. Paul mumbles something about being able to light a fire in the furnace. It will be enough to comfortably sit without their outerwear, but he won’t call attention to his workshop with a gallant blaze. Sam shrugs again, replying that Paul can do whatever he wants. There’s a joke about freedom in there somewhere that he’s too irritated to make.

Paul leads him over to the familiar table, littered with documents that he’d clearly poured over prior to Sam’s arrival. Sam sits with a heavy _thud_ as he pulls a pile nearer to him. Maps, pictures, biographies, tax documents all swimming before his eyes, and he yawns, rubbing his face with the heels of his palms. He can hear Paul snicker.

“Aye, not nearly drunk enough.”

Sam looks up, rolling his eyes, and forces himself to focus. Paul is sitting across from him, the warehouse slowly becoming a little warmer, motioning to a few notes he’s made on a map.

“All Torries, here,” he points. “Kelly reported back to me. The question now becomes that of, how do we plan to elicit a boycott?” 

Sam nods. It’s a fair question, and one he hasn’t really yet considered, but he’ll think of something. “We…we… we mark the locations.” 

“Yeah, and how is that?” That smugness is back in Paul’s voice, and Sam can hear it, as loudly as the sarcasm. 

“I don’t know, with a giant letter ‘T’ on it!” Sarcasm coming through in his own words with a hint of annoyance. Paul grins. 

“Well if that isn’t discreet, I don’t know what is,” he chuckles again. “No, you’re definitely not drunk enough.” 

“Would you stop saying that?” Sam grunts, despite the fact that he knows he said it first. “Besides, who said we had to be discreet?” 

He yawns again, and they continue to turn through the papers. Other ways of marking Tory businesses as quickly as possible, routes to maintain them from being captured by His Majesty’s Royal Guard, and who they can enlist to help mark versus who they can enlist on lookout. It’s a tedious plan, and Sam can feel the slight buzz slowly turning into a dull headache. He looks down at the table for a moment, his fingers pressed to his temples. Paul raises an eyebrow. There’s silence in the room for a moment, even as the fire in the corner burns to a slow, amber smolder. 

“I know why you’re here,” Paul says again. This time, the tone in his voice has a more serious air to it.

“Of course you do. There’s planning, there’s work, there are very few safe spaces left in this godforsaken city for people like you and me—”

“And the reason for which you aren’t with a lady, in a bed,” he adds dryly. Sam narrows his eyes. 

“In what home? What lady?” he sounds offended for a moment. “Whose bed?” 

That signature smirk is back on Paul’s lips, and the air suddenly feels thick, heavy. Dark eyes meet dark eyes before Paul turns his glance, and stands, walking swiftly toward the fire. His boots make faint clicking sounds on the wooden floor boards. 

“How are you so calm all of the time?!” Sam suddenly asks, turning to face him.

Paul purses his lips together, his glance meeting Sam’s once again. Moving back toward the table which is looking in even more disarray than before, he’s sitting again. This time, he sits in a chair beside Sam instead of across from him. 

“Someone has to balance you out, Sam. And despite what you or Gage or anyone else thinks, it’s not your dear ol’ cousin, and it _certainly_ isn’t ol’ spoiled Hancock. When you think about it, aside from maybe Kelly or Warren, who has helped you – planned – with you, this cause all along?” He speaks the words as calmly as ever, and Sam nearly feels indignant. “Don’t act as if I don’t have a fire lit under my ass just because I don’t wear my emotions like you do. There is a reason I come here at midnight, even if it isn’t the same as yours.” 

“My reason is within the pursuit of liberty, because I have the right to walk in these streets just as they do!” Sam’s face is hot now, but he’s not sure that it’s entirely due to the fire. In a way, he knows that Paul’s words are true, and in a way he feels as though he’s playing at something more. He furrows his brows, another harsh glare at him. Paul doesn’t flinch. 

“It goes beyond liberty,” Paul says. There’s a confidence in his voice that Sam can only match with passion. “It’s consumed you. You’re not satisfied in any way in life anymore.” 

“Look around, Paul! And you are?!” 

“When I choose to be, with the things and people I have around me…” 

Sam is glaring again, but Paul isn’t. He lets the smirk disappear from his lips and instead, he’s leaning forward. A hand reaches around Sam’s side, just below his arms, holding them steady while his lips press hard against Sam’s -- rough, cracked, and full of tension. Surprise washes over them both, but Sam doesn’t push away. Instead, a hand goes to Paul’s arm, pulling him closer. The kiss becomes rough in its pace for a moment, and then Sam is pushing him away. He doesn’t attempt to be gentle.

“You bastard,” Sam groans, but there’s that hint of longing in his voice that Paul has heard before. Accusatory though it is, Paul knows that Sam is anything but offended.

“And you mirror the same.” His own words stated in that same confidence that Sam can only envy right now. “A bastard out in the dead of night, looking for something more than just a plan of action, or some kind of dead-end adventure.”

“Dead-end?” he repeats it with a question. 

“You come here drunk, but certainly never drunk enough.” Sam thinks that Paul’s smirk warrants its own brand of marketing. 

“Or you could try that again instead of spewing more shit.” 

Paul would laugh if Sam wasn’t initiating an invitation to something he was willing to take as his. This time, when he kisses him, he’s pulling Sam closer yet with the firm grasp, off his chair and onto Paul’s own. Raspy breaths as he tilts his head, pressing his tongue inside of Paul’s mouth. He tastes like metal and tobacco, and it’s so different from any other mouth he’s tasted – not that he can remember the last time he’s done this. Weeks, or maybe months. It hasn’t mattered to him. 

This time it’s Paul who pulls away with a sharp breath and he’s wiping his lower lip with his finger before sucking it in. Eyes meeting directly with Sam’s. His cheeks are flushed, but it’s far from embarrassment. 

“Suppose I wanted more?” Sam asks, coolly. 

“It wouldn’t take a surgeon to see it.” 

“Piss off.” 

A laugh. “Then don’t pretend, with your reasons, that every time you come here, has to be about _this_.” He motions to the papers below him. “If this is war, then you know as well as I that it shan’t be settled in a single night.” His words aren’t reassuring, but somehow Paul manages to make them sound as though they are.

Sam looks from the table back to him. “Let me have then, the things that haven’t been taking from me.” He whispers the words. 

And no sooner does he say it, that Paul holding his hips and pressing his mouth sharply against him once again.

**Author's Note:**

> After watching and re-watching the "Sons of Liberty" History Channel extravaganza and now finding both in my head and in my heart a desire to slash our Founding Fathers, I am only slightly sad that there is not yet more of these boys -- especially of that Paul Revere, as I assumed it would be the first thing anyone wrote! However, no matter! I am here to spread more of their love around for all! Hoping next time to make a little more porny/PWP-y...the stuff that didn't seem to fit in just yet. Always looking for suggestions!


End file.
